Life in London
by Cececat
Summary: It's 1977, three years after "Life (not) at the Frankenstein Place". Columbia and the robot must now go to London 1972 so they can hide young Stella from those that know who Stella really is. But what will they do there? How will they spend the next few years? Probably can be read as standalone, due to prologue. [Older story being rewritten] (Please Read and Review!)
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own T _he Rocky Horror Picture Show_**

 **A/N: Originally, this was posted soon after I finished the story _Life (not) At The Frankenstein Place_. It's a direct sequel. I soon enough deleted it because it seemed 'wrong' to have real people in it. Now I've begun a few stories like that so it doesn't seem as bad. ****Anyway, I'll be posting all that's written so far. If anyone wants more, you know what to do...**

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My name is Laura Trent, though people called me Columbia' for many years. After the movie company. Yeah, I was weird as a teenager. Though I suppose I'm still pretty young - at the time this story begins I was 23 - I've grown up a lot in the last four years. So much weirdness happened. Looking back it would've made a damn good novel. I did keep a diary, of course... but that's irrelevant.

I should probably explain the events that led up to _this_.

For years I was a groupie. It was a stupid life full of sex, drug, and rock n' roll. Then I somehow got involved with a bunch of aliens, which was weird. There I lived at their castle in Ohio doing nothing useful for months. I was technically something of a sex slave to the 'master' of the house, whose name was Frank... but we won't go into all that. Eventually this other Earthling showed up. He was called Eddie and brought the life back into me. We fell in love, or so I thought, and eventually escaped the castle together. After a few weeks of randomly traveling with his long-lost father, who we thought wasn't anyone important, we ended up in DC. There was a bit of a shoot-out in this giant underground warehouse full of. It was like something out of that really great sci-fi film that came out back in '77. You know, the one with the giant space station? Anyway... we did some fighting, picked up a robot named nonHAL-asimov-42, went back to the castle, more weird shit happened, the alien I'd been sleeping with built a creation, some random Earthlings showed up, Eddie died, the aliens left, and I was now living in an underground bunker. Seriously.

Then, I was stuck looking after one of the random Earthlings who'd shown up. She was called 'Janet' and Frank had knocked her up. That woman somehow became my responsibly. The pregnancy made her act like a sixteen-year-old. After nine months of putting up with her she died in childbirth. So Janet was dead and the twins - her twins - were mine to look after. That sounds creepy. If anything it was a punishment inflicted by a particularly cruel god. I looked after these two children that weren't mine from the very moment they were born, to the point they sort of seemed like my children. At least the robot nonHAL-asimov-42 (aka Robby) helped. After a few years in this state of semi-calm things went mad again.

It began when Marcus (the guy who owned the warehouse) summoned me- and the twins- to Washington, DC. He refused to say why over the phone. Just that it was serious. That scared me, though enough strangeness had already happened that I was pretty matter-of-fact about it.

And so, we made that four and a half hour trip in Mr. Bradshaw's old van. Robby played one of his lullabies for the twins to make sure they would sleep. Sonny has a habit of saying 'aw we thewe yet' every five seconds. Though now that there more like toddlers than babies, it _is_ a bit easier to handle them.

When we got to the warehouse, we entered through a perfectly conventional door (nothing like that awful trap door we fell through last time). Winslow showed us to a room that they apparently considered the living room.

After we'd all caught up and I'd introduced the twins, Marcus explained why he'd called us here: he'd heard news of Lord de Lordy plotting to find me.

I was more surprised to hear that de Lordy was alive than anything.

"I though you killed him," I said, as we sat there.

"We should've," Winslow muttered darkly.

Marcus sighed. "Well, we didn't. He escaped- from the cell I'd been holding him in- only a year or so ago."

"Why didn't you tell us about that earlier?" I asked, now quite annoyed.

"Because I was been under the impression that he'd quietly gone back to that planet of his and given up on messing with other planets. He did… for a while. _Now_ I have news from one of my many contacts that he recently learned about two new rival heirs. Being the paranoid monster he is, he's bound to send people to kill them," Marcus explained.

Instinctively, I put an arm around each of the children. They also looked frightened now.

"We've got a few ideas, though. Ways to help keep them safe," Winslow explained.

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Suddenly, Winslow grinned. "We plan to send one child and you to London under false names. The other child will stay hear, and brought up under an alias. Since kids don't remember what happened to them as toddlers, _they_ won't even know."

"Just sending me to London won't do much good," I pointed out. "De Lordy expects us to do something like that. You can't just give me a plane ticket and send me away! He'll find me quite quickly!"

"It's better than just simply giving you a plane ticket! You see, we're sending you to London in 1972. Six years back, so he really won't be able to find you. We're betting on the fact that he probably doesn't even know time travel exists," Winslow explained.

"And I'm pretty sure that he's only heard a rumor of a rival heir. It's not like he has any real proof. Also, he can't just go looking for people with a physical resemblance to their late father. As you've surely noticed, all alien 'physical appearance genes' are recessive," Marcus added.

Though I hated to admit it, they were right. This would be simple enough.

I suppose I just didn't want to be away from the kids. Since I've always cared for them- nursed them, even- they're my children. At least Winslow and Marcus would only adopt one of the twins. But being in a different country and a different year… that's scary.

"Winslow and I will take care of Sonny for a few years. And, if all goes as planned, he'll think you've only been gone a day! Time travels a funny thing."

That made sense, I suppose. I'd go back in time six years, live in London until it's 1978 again, and then come back to DC. To Sonny it would seem like mere days.

"Fine," I said quietly.

Winslow handed me a shoulder bag full of various papers and fake IDs. I didn't get much time to look at them, alas.

And then they showed us to a strange room. It was made of sleek metal on three sides. The forth wall was merely a strange forcefield that stung slightly when we walked through it. Once the three of us (Stella, the robot, and I) were inside, Marcus began pressing various buttons on an outside panel. This made me a bit more nervous. There was something freaky about being surrounded by that forcefield. It all felt like something out of a not-so-cheerful science fiction flick.

"What awe we doing, mommy?" Stella asked.

"Going to London. That's a city in England," I told her.

Suddenly, a flash of pure white light nearly blinded us… and then we found ourselves on a busy street corner in a bustling city. It appeared to be late afternoon.

"We are in the location he said we would be sent to," Robby said, after a moment.

He pointed to a newspaper that happened to be lying near our feet. Carefully, I picked it up and read the date.

"Wha' does it say?" Stella asked.

"We're in London. In 1972," I whispered in strange awe.

After only a minute or two, it dawned on me that I was standing there in broad daylight with a 7-foot-tall robot. And nobody nearby seemed bothered. This wasn't right. Had we been sent to another planet by accident?

"It's the wrong season, you know," a grumpy voice behind me said.

I turned around to see an older woman glaring at Robby. "You aliens aren't supposed to invade until Christmas! You've still got three months or so till then."

"Sorry. Er, well then… we're not invading yet," I said awkwardly. "Just visiting."

Muttering under her breath about 'aliens these days', the odd woman lumbered away. Later I learned that aliens were common in England and that the city was systematically invaded every Christmastime.

I decided to sit down on a nearby bench and go through whatever papers were in the shoulder bag. I knew that standing here gapping wouldn't do us any good. Thankfully, the first paper I pulled out happened to be about where I'd be staying.

Apparently a polite (according to the notes) young woman named 'Tricia Beeblebrox' was renting out a few rooms in her house to us. By strange coincidence, we happened to be standing on the very street her house was apparently on. Perhaps it wasn't a coincidence. The mad assortment of technology Marcus had was shockingly sophisticated.

"Come on," I said. "Robby, would you please carry Stella?"

She looked very tired, and the robot never seems to mind helping when it came to the kids. He's really sweet and can be very fatherly at times. By then we'd managed to reprogram him to not follow the Three Laws by that point (which is why I asked him- not told him- to carry Stella). That was too restrictive for him. After that re-programming surgery was complete he claimed he felt almost totally human. Apparently robots like feeling human...

When we got to the house, a woman in her early 30s greeted us at the door. She had blue eyes, light blonde hair, and an obvious fondness for colorful eye makeup.

"You must be Laurie Trent and company," she said, eyeing the robot.

"Yes. That's right," I replied nervously.

"Well, I'm Tricia Beeblebrox."

"Pleased to meet you," I said, shaking her hand.

We followed her into the house's cosy living room. There, Robby set Stella down on a couch. I sat next to her. Tricia, on the other hand, sat in a chair across the room. That felt somewhat alienating. Though her kind face and sensible style of dress gave me the impression she was just too professional to sit with us... whatever that could mean.

"So, the girl is half alien?" Tricia asked, getting right down to business.

I nodded. "Her father's an alien. Though I'm not her mother, I know her mother was 100% human. And very hysterical at times - though dear little Stella is much better behaved."

Tricia chuckled awkwardly. "That's interesting... I haven't actually met somebody like that before. That is, a child who's half alien."

"How can you be so nonchalant about all this?" I asked Tricia. "Aliens and robots, that is."

"Aliens are everywhere in this country. My husband's an alien, in fact! We don't pay much notice these days," Tricia explained as we sat down.

"Wait… you have a husband?" I asked.

"Yes. He's never around, though. That makes matters easier. But don't worry, he'll warn me a few days in advance if he plans to drop by," Tricia explained cheerfully.

We sat there in silence for a moment. I suppose nobody knew what to say. Though I wanted to hear more about this husband of hers I didn't want to annoy her the day we met. So I stayed silent. Everyone else also did until, finally, Tricia spoke.

"I'd better give you a tour of the house now..."

So, she did.

Apparently I'd be staying in one of the two guest rooms. There was a smaller 'child-sized' bed - well, crib - in the corner of my new room for Stella. A room in the basement was reserved for Robby. Since he doesn't actually sleep (being a robot), he doesn't really need a room. But she still gave him that room out of politeness. It gave him space for whatever electronics project he felt like working on and a place to go when he didn't want to be around others.

When I asked her why she was being so nice about all this, Tricia merely shrugged and said that she 'owed Marcus a favor'. The look on her face she mentioned him gave me the impression there were very close. Also, I couldn't help but wonder if he time travels all the time or something. How else could they have really known each other?

After she'd showed us around, I left Stella in her room to take a nap. Robby stayed and promised to keep an eye on her. Then the remaining two of us went back to the living room to discuss other things.

"Marcus said he'd made false IDs for you," Tricia said.

"I'm pretty sure they'd be in that bag," I told her, pointing toward the bag I'd been given.

"You'd better read through everything. Forgetting you own last name is unfortunate indeed," Tricia said darkly.

Rolling my eyes at how melodramatic she was, I began looking through the many papers. Most of them appeared to me instructions of various kinds. I guess he hadn't counted on Tricia being so helpful. Soon enough I found a basic summary of 'Lauren Scott'. Reading it almost made me cry. How true it all was! I suppose it had to be close enough to my real life to seem realistic. They didn't want me to seem like I was lying.

 _'Lauren Scott' (née Ross) is the 23-year-old widow of Edward Scott. After only a year of marriage he died defending her from a violent ex-boyfriend of hers. Though they didn't have children of their own, a mutual friend of theirs had a daughter they'd adopted once said friend died. Now she'd come to London in the hope of working backstage in theatres, since she'd done similar jobs before her marriage._

Even though I'd never married Eddie and he'd died before Stella was born, that story seemed almost as true as the truth. The unnamed 'violent ex-boyfriend' sounded just like Frank… indeed, he basically was a fictionalized version of Frank.

"Are you, er, alright?" Tricia asked, noticing the tears on my face.

I nodded silently. If I spoke I'd probably just get even more upset.

So, to distract myself, I began looking through other papers. There was a faked resume detailing the various backstage jobs I'd done. I really _had_ worked backstage- though at concerts the bands I'd traveled with performed. Not at fancy theaters full of real, living actors. Yet, how different could it really be?

A lot more different than I'd believed, as I found out once I began my new job the next day.

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	2. New Job

**Disclaimer: I don't own T _he Rocky Horror Picture Show_**

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Tricia, it turns out, works from home. Apparently she has a column in a local paper or something. I'm not too clear on the details, though. Either way it means she'll be at the house with Robby and Stella all day.

Somehow I already had a job. Because of this I'd begun to suspect that Marcus was (or, at least, knew very well) a supernatural being of some kind. He'd managed to get me a job at this small 'experimental' theatre called the Royal Court Theatre. I'll be like this weird janitor lady or something. Being an actor had been a secret dream of mine, as it is with many people, though I doubted I would end up actually part of a play. If life were a movie somebody and their understudy would randomly die, and I'd get a starring role by being in the way. Though life isn't a movie so I'll just be this chick sweeping up the floor.

Since she doesn't have a specific schedule of when to write what, Tricia agreed to help me get to work.

"But _only_ today. If you haven't figured it out by this afternoon, don't blame me," she told me at breakfast.

The way I got to work happened to be insanely confusing. Since I'd never lived in a city like this, I'd never been forced to deal with the evil that is public transportation. I was almost late to work because of how strange it all was. I left from an underground station called King's Cross St. Pancras. Don't ask me why it's called that, I've been wondering the same thing. That went to another station, called Sloane Square, which was only a few minutes walk from the Royal Court Theatre. That may not sound very confusing to some people but it sure was.

The theatre itself was interesting. Nothing like those noisy clubs with small, rarely-used stages that I'd sometimes dance at. This place was very different. And it wasn't just one theatre! No, there were two: Theatre Downstairs and Theatre Upstairs. The former had 400 seats, while the latter had merely 63. Very artsy, I suppose. It was really cool.

When I first go there, I entered through the grand front doors. Somebody forgot to lock them… I _think_. As I walked through the doorway I felt strangely guilty. It felt like trespassing or something.

Slowly, I found my way into the downstairs theatre. Almost none of the lights were on. And, somehow, it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. That statement makes me feel like the Phantom of the Opera. The guy who wrote the book must've been such a weirdo. It was a favorite of Magenta's, like most gothic novels. This strange room reminded me of the way she'd read her battered old copy out loud.

The delicate silence, the elegant outline of the stage…

This lovely vision of was shattered by somebody turning on all the lights and the awful sound of somebody shouting about trespassing being illegal. I soon learned that this person was the stage manager.

"Who the _Hell_ are you?" she asked once she stood right in front of me. Her voice was loud and harshly accented. Being an American, I wasn't sure which accent it was. Though, whatever it happened to be, it sure wasn't pretty.

"Um, I'm Lauren Scott. The new stage hand? From... America?"

Her expression softened slightly, as did her voice. "Oh. I'm Mrs. Josette Buquet, the woman in charge of all the lunacy that goes on backstage."

I shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Buquet."

"Call me Mrs. Josie- _everyone_ does."

"Nice to meet you... Mrs. Josie."

We stood there in awkward silence for a moment. Though they had frightening accents the British were actually rather kind. It made me wonder why we kicked them out of the Colonies or whatever all those years ago. I suppose it's the confusing sense of humor. Americans are too obvious to comprehend the delicate British art of snarky sarcasm.

Mrs. Josie chuckled, eventually. "Well, er… you'll just be helping keep everything organized in the Theatre Downstairs. I'll _never_ understand how they manage to be so messy, those actors!"

"So I'll just be cleaning and organizing things in the Theatre Downstairs?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yes. We've already got somebody cleaning that Theatre Upstairs. Much less goes on there, since there are only about 60 seats. Stage is quite small, too."

Then, a young man entered the room. He wore a plaid button down shirt, leather jacket, jeans, and those funny shoes. His face- though not very attractive- had a strangely aristocratic look to it. Though it also resembled that of a dog's. The sort of grumpy dog that barks loudly and gruffly at you. After noticing me standing there, he raised an eyebrow and spoke to Mrs. Josie. At least his voice was smooth and good to listen to, which I hadn't expected going by the face.

"Er, Mrs. Buquet," he said. "Elsie said you wanted to see me."

"Oh! Mr. Sharman showed up a few hours ago, looking for you. Said an old friend of yours is in town."

"Who?"

"Somebody called... Smith? Can't remember his name, not properly. Apparently you co-starred in the funny play about the hippies at one point."

"Don't remind me of that monstrosity. I still hate myself for merely auditioning for that. What if I'm forever remembered as a guy from that musical called _Hair_? That would be really embarrassing."

Then he stormed off.

"Who was that?" I asked.

Mrs. Josie sighed. "Timothy. He's only 26 and he's already worrying about what people will think of him in a few years. Very indecisive, that boy. He worries too much - poor dear!"

At that point I hoped I'd never have to meet Timothy again. When someone else is very stressed it makes me panic. That's something I wanted to avoid at the lovely knew job of mine.

After that little chance meeting, Mrs. Josie showed me all the rooms backstage. I'd mostly just be hanging the many costumes up in the right closets and putting various props on the correct shelves. And, most importantly, not getting in the way of the actors. Since I work from about 9AM to 6PM, that wasn't too challenging. Shows usually started at seven in the evening. Of course, there are sometimes people rehearsing in different rooms during the day. Though it's easy enough to avoid them.

Mrs. Josie was so very nice about everything. When it was time for me to leave, she came and told me. After saying to her goodbye, I walked right to Sloane Square station and then made my way back to Tricia's house. I went right to the kitchen and sat down at the table. At that point, Tricia had begun to cook dinner already. It looked pretty good. Better than my cooking, at least. Though it was simply pasta, tomato sauce, and toast.

"Did Stella behave?" I asked, right away.

She nodded. "Yes. I was able to finish the article I'd planned to write today without any interruptions. Robby played her a song, at one point, to calm her down. But once she got used to the idea of you being at work she was okay."

That's when Stella wandered into the room with Robby following close behind.

"Mamma?"

"Stella? I'm home now," I said.

Then, I walked over to her and picked her up. She seemed quite happy to see me. I never really left that weird underground bunker they'd lived in all their lives. So it must've been weird for me to be gone for so long… even though it was only about nine hours. But now that we were reunited she seemed very happy. I suppose Robby was there all day with her.

The rest of the evening went nicely enough. Nothing strange happened in the. In fact, things felt somewhat _normal_. Even more normal than back 'home' in the

We ended up enrolling Stella in day care after a week or two. I let poor Tricia handle most of that. Not that she really minded. It seemed to me that, if it weren't for her husband saying something against it. Perhaps that's why she volunteered to have her house 'used' by a bunch of Marcus' friends (meaning Robby, Stella, and I). Anyway... every day save for Sunday I went to work, did my job, avoided talking to the actors, and then happily went home. Since I can't cook, Tricia always made meals. She seemed to enjoy it.

After about a month and a half of this, I made the mistake of striking up a conversation with an actor.

It was late October at that point. The weather was not much colder in London than in Denton. In fact, Denton is actually colder because it's more rural. Though I'm pretty sure London is farther North than Denton. Not that it really matters...

Even though I never actually pay attention to what plays are being performed, I knew that whatever was playing Upstairs was nearing the end of its run. There's something sort of 'in the air' that gives one the impression plays are almost over. Perhaps it's the newfound nervousness of some actors and the recent sadness of others? I'm not sure. What confirmed it was that one of the actors, a young woman named Elsie, was planning a party. It's easier to hear about a party than a play's closing because the actors are usually happier about a party. Though I suppose some particularly unpleasant directors.

I overheard her discussing it with Mrs. Josie, while I was hanging up all the costumes in the main costume/prop room. THat's a lovely place full of glittering, glorious gowns and lovely little shoes and everything fantastical you can imagine. False jewelry that looks so real in the right lighting! My, my. The theater is an amazing place indeed.

Elsie was very enthusiastic. "Ooh, it'll be wonderful! I've invited the entire cast. By now, most of them have said they'll be there. It took a bit of effort to convince Tim, of course. But now he swears he'll show up, as long as we-"

Eventually, Mrs. Josie cleared her throat. "I've got to go make sure the crew is ready for tonight's show."

Then, she wandered off. That left just Elsie and I standing there. It was sort of awkward being alone with that woman. She's got wide, energetic brown eyes and light brown hair that's falls in loose curls not much past her shoulders. That's always tied back. Her eyebrows are slightly darker, though not by much, and rather thin. When it comes to her actual _face_ she's got severe cheekbones and a sort of sharp look to her. This combination reminds me of some sort of aristocrat, I guess. Body-wise she's tall and thin, but still 'curves' properly here and there. Her wardrobe mainly consists of knit dresses worn with opaque stockings, heeled boots, and a colorful knit hat of some sort. Sometimes she looks a bit too professional. I mean she seems more like a secretary than an actress.

"Right, then," Elsie said awkwardly after we'd stared at each other for far too long.

"Do you often host parties when a play's run is over?" I asked her.

She smiled at me, though in a somewhat patronizing way. "Sometimes."

Something about this intrigued me. "Do you host them at the theatre itself? And do only the cast members get invited?"

Still, she smiled. Though it became a bit kinder of a smile and her words were suddenly a bit more inclusive. "Well… we have the party at somebody's house. Usually mine, since I organize this stuff. And it's mostly just actors or backstage people who get invited. Do you want to go?"

Though I was shocked that she'd invite me, I quickly replied: "Yes!"

Elsie quickly scribbled a note of some kind on a scrap of paper she'd found in her jacket pocket. "There. Date, time, and address. By the way, it doesn't really matter what you wear. Just don't dress up too nicely. In fact… what you're wearing now is just fine. We're all rather causal at this sort of thing."

And then she handed the paper to me. Like her face, her handwriting was sharp and severe. At least it was legible. Before I could say anything more she cheerfully left me standing there. I stuffed the paper in my plain jacket's pocket without even bothering to really look at it. Attending a party would earn me friends besides . But I still had my American accent, which annoyed many Londoners. I'd at least tried - and to some degree succeeded - to lower the pitch of it. I dearly hoped to pick up the BBC-reporter accent. Though London - especially the theatre district - was a wild collection of accents and I was borrowing snatches of each. Only if I tried hard could I manage something that sounded proper.

Hours after Elsie gave me that note, when I got home, I actually looked at it. Apparently the party was next Friday, started at 9:00 in the evening, and was . I didn't know Elsie very well, so I wasn't exactly sure if going would be a good idea. For all I knew her friends would hate me and coworkers mock me for

Though I knew that I _would_ be living here for until 1978. So it might be good to make friends.

I told Tricia about the party after I'd put Stella to bed.

"It's _presumably_ fine," Tricia said thoughtfully. "I mean, you know at least some of these people already. And it's too early in the evening for it to be really wild. Only later do people get funny. Though you're an American, so surely you're used to wild behavior. We Brit's a more civilized when it comes to partying - as with most things. We've a subdued sense of humor which is sarcastic and more sensible than American slapstick. Also, you're a damned lot of Puritan prudes who can't handle the sight of a pretty girl's bare breasts without screaming dreadfully for someone to cover her up. Everyone else in the western world can handle tits, even those surrendering Frenchmen. And you're really bad at swearing. Do you even _know_ how the word 'fuck' is-"

"So... you think I should go?" I asked, haven gotten sort of lost in her anti-American rant. Though she did have a point with some of it.

"Yes, it'll be good for you. You need friends- people to entertain you- who aren't me. I don't mean it in a bad way, but talking to you all the time is annoying."

She had a point, I knew.

The evening of the party, I was a bit nervous. I'd spent the last three years with a social life that consisted solely of meaningless conversations with shop owners and occasionally calling Marcus about something. Of course, I used to be the sort of person who lived a pointless life that could be summed up by the phrase 'Sex, Drugs, and Rock n' Roll'. It was terribly fun being a wild and untamed thing, but it also took a toll on one's overall health.

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Tricia helped me find an outfit for the party. Most of it involved her clothes, not mine.

I ended up wearing very short pinstripe shorts, glittery stockings, and a black shirt. Over that I wore black boots and a silvery-blue blazer. It looked a bit like the Glam Rock style clothes I used to wear.

By 1977 Glam Rock inspired fashion was pretty much out of style. But here, back in '72, Glam Rock was around. Though it seemed to be an early form. Pre-Bowie. Though Tricia still found me a real cute miniskirt, a plain blouse with a bow-tying neckline, a glittery suit jacket, and boots. So I looked like a cross between the 1960s and early Glam Rock. At least it all sort of worked.

Since I hadn't really done anything with it in a while, my hair was longer than shoulder length and back to its natural light brown. I just left it down usually, since that was the mainstream style at the time, or wore it in a ponytail. But Tricia didn't approve of that…

"You've _got_ to do something interesting with your hair!" she exclaimed.

"Like what? I used to cut it short and dye it, but I haven't in years," I replied.

Rolling her eyes, she tied it up in a ponytail. "At least _that_ will keep it out of your face."

Then she began to do my makeup. She was having far too much fun dressing me up, I unhappily decided. I was like a cute doll or something!

After a while she'd finally finished my makeup. It actually looked pretty nice by the end. I looked like I used to, all those years ago. When I was still a crazy party girl. Though I also looked like drag queens I'd dated and/or fucked briefly. Yes, I'd known more than just Frankie. Drag queens are pretty cool sometimes but it's weird for a girl to dress like one. Almost-red lips, so much mascara I nearly looked like Twiggy, eye makeup that made my eyelids stand out somehow, and a bit of powder all over my face.

Only minutes after she'd finished my makeup, it was time to leave. We took a cab to Elsie's house, which wasn't too far. She's also in Islington. Once we'd established that this was the right party Tricia left me there on the doorstep. And then I entered the house. Elsie sweetly greeted me at the front door. At the time she wore one of her usual outfits. To my embarrassment she seemed a bit shocked by my more formal clothes. Well, perhaps formal isn't the right word...

"Hello, er, Elsie," I said.

She smiled politely at me. "Hello, Laurie! That's your name, yes?"

"It's _Lauren_ Scott, actually," I told her nervously. "But you can call me Laurie… I guess. It's all cool to me."

"Great!"

Then, she led me into the house. The party happened to be in the living room. By the time I'd gotten there, they were already drinking punch and eating appetizers. In this case, 'they' means a collection of various actors I'd seen around the theatre. And a few people I knew from working backstage, too. Tim wasn't there.

I knew who everyone was to some extent. Unfortunately, I didn't really know their actual names. Thankfully, Elsie decided to introduce me to everyone. This I decided was a good thing because I really wanted to know some of these nice-seeming people better. She never got around to it, however. A distraction stopped her.

A distraction in the form of two people who'd decided to crash the party. Really fun kids, they were...

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	3. After the Party

**Disclaimer: I don't own T _he Rocky Horror Picture Show_**

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 **A/N: Here we get to see fictionalized versions of dear Patricia Quinn and solemn Richard O'Brien. They are not real at all. Well, it's like the Tim Burton movie _Ed Wood_ versus the real Edward D. Wood jr. Some of it's true and some isn't. **

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The people who crashed the party were very polite about it. They didn't barge in wildly, or do anything crazy. _And_ neither of them was intoxicated!

In fact, the only reason anyone acknowledged the appearance of the two strangers was that the woman had tried to pour something into the punch.

"What's in that bottle? I sure hope it's not alcoholic, 'cause we-"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Of course it's alcoholic! What else would it be?"

The other party crasher (a man) now looked very embarrassed. "Maybe this wasn't the best idea. I think we'd better leave n-"

" _Not yet._ It's only about nine-thirty!" the woman protested. "Anyway, this was a very clever idea. You said so earlier. In fact, if I-"

"You aren't nineteen anymore, no matter how hard you try," he replied darkly.

"Look, you can stay if you don't cause any trouble. Though we'd at least like to know names," Elsie said.

The woman smiled cheerfully. "I'm Patricia - call me Pat, though. And _this_ fine young bald man is Ritzy. Isn't his hat nice?"

"My name is Richard, actually. Richard Smith," the man corrected.

Patricia was a petite woman who wore her brown hair curled and partially pinned back. The mischievous gleam in her vibrant green eyes made me think of some sort of troublemaking spirit out of a fairy-story. Probably an Irish one. There was something slightly Irish about her. Perhaps the green eyes reminded me of a leprechaun? She wore a vintage dress - from the '30s, I think - which complimented her figure very nicely. It was Something about her voice and her cheerful manner made her the sort of person you couldn't help but want to be around. That woman was intoxicating.

Oddly, Richard was the opposite. He seemed sort of shy and almost too serious. Like kids I might've gone to school with who were the cleverest yet never felt good enough. It was sad. Clearly, the man had a lot on his mind. I wondered what but didn't dare say.

Once the partygoers had gone back to their earlier conversations, and when Patricia thought nobody was looking, she poured the entire bottle into the punch. I was a bit

"What are you doing?" I asked her, quietly.

"Whenever _she_ hosts a party, alcohol is banned," Patricia replied brightly. "And that makes things a bit too boring. Since none of them have work tomorrow, they can use the free time to figure out why their trousers are in her front garden."

I raised an eyebrow. "Do you really think things could get that bad?"

She smiled a wonderfully roguish smile. "If all goes as planned."

Various guests began to drink more and more. I didn't drink any of the punch, though I _did_ have a bottle of beer she offered me.

"So… how do _you_ know Elsie Cartwright?" Pat asked, as we stood there.

"Well, I have a job backstage at the Royal Court Theatre. Though I don't really know her, since I work in the Theatre Downstairs and this party is for a Theatre Upstairs production," I explained.

"Hmm."

By then, all of the guests were showing some signs of drunkenness. The fact that there were only about fifteen people made that not as impressive sounding. And the party sounded a bit wilder than it actually was thanks to a record player turned up as loudly as possible.

Soon, they ran out of punch.

Luckily, Pat had brought a bag full of various almost-empty bottles of strong drinks _just_ to refill the punch bowl.

"I went through the liquor cabinet at my apartment earlier this afternoon. These are all the almost empty bottles I found. They'll be too drunk to realize how awful it tastes soon enough," she explained as she poured it all into the bowl.

Her 'partner in crime', Richard, appeared to have started various drinking games among the guests. Of course, he didn't drink any himself. Clever.

Even cleverer, he left once things started to get really crazy.

By then nobody else was sober enough to speak clearly or walk in a straight line. Pat and I were like the two clear-headed people left. There seemed to be a fight of some kind going on and Elsie was in the corner making out with a random guy. It looked like what people _think_ teenager-hosted parties are like.

"What do we do now?" I asked, staring at the madness around us.

"I'm really not sure. We could either run for our lives, get _almost_ as drunk as these people all happen to be, or watch them look stupid while being glad we aren't them."

Watching one of the guests knock over a fancy glass lamp, I grabbed a glass. "I'll go with the second option. I _really_ need a drink!"

"I brought perfectly respectable wine for that," Pat said cheerfully, pouring some for both of us.

"A toast to your talent for causing chaos!" I said brightly, gesturing toward the room.

"A toast," she repeated, clinking her glass against mine.

We both gagged at the taste of whatever was in the glass. It wasn't wine… though it wasn't actually bad. The flavor just surprised us.

She blushed. "I don't really drink very often, so I don't go into my cabinet very often. Somebody is messing with me… oh God. Only _one_ other person has a key to that cabinet! I'll _kill_ him if-"

To shut her up, I kissed her. Okay, I _had_ had some of the punch earlier. And whatever we'd drunk was probably something strong. I get drunk very easily. That isn't a good thing.

Or maybe I wasn't drunk. Maybe it was how lovely her green eyes were. Those green eyes reminded me of someone, but I just couldn't remember whom!

Pat chuckled nervously. "I think escape might be a better option…"

"Right!"

Without further ado the two of us ran out of Elsie's house. A running car sat out front, with Pat's friend Richard in the driver's seat. He looked rather annoyed. This made sense, of course.

"Should we go straight to your flat or-" Then, he noticed me "Who's that?"

"My name's Laura Trent," I explained. "I'm the only sober person left from the party."

"An American in London," he muttered, noticing my (obvious) accent. "What _ever_ will happen next?"

"He's joking," Pat whispered, seeing the expression of worry on my face.

"Oh."

"So, Miss Trent-"

"Laura."

"So, Laura, where do you live now?" Richard asked.

Good. He was going to drive me home! "I live with a friend of mine. Tricia Beeblebrox."

"Where's that?"

I told him the address and, then, he began to drive away.

We drove for a while. It felt kind of awkward, being in a strange car with people I'd just met. Though Pat made an effort to be nice about everything. She told poor Richard all about our little adventure.

"It took you more than an hour, Pat. You're record for getting a party of about 15 people drunk is exactly 45 minutes, 32 seconds," Richard said.

"Do you do this often?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sometimes…" Patricia replied sheepishly.

"Most of the time," Richard corrected.

Then, the both of them burst out laughing. She seemed to laugh a lot more loudly and enthusiastically than he did. Not that this was a bad thing. They seemed like nice people.

Soon enough we were Tricia's street. I pointed out her house and Richard parked in front of it. Then, I got out of the car.

To my confusion, Pat _also_ got out of the car. As did Richard. Then, they followed me to the door of Tricia's house.

After I'd unlocked the door they followed me into the foyer. There stood Tricia, reading a magazine she'd gotten in the mail.

"Who are you two?" Tricia asked, once she'd seen the three of us.

"I'm Patricia Quinn- though you can call me 'Pat'- and this is my friend Richard Smith," Pat explained cheerfully.

"Good to meet you," Tricia said politely.

Then, she led them into the kitchen. I'd learned by then that Tricia's an extremely trusting person. For one thing, she acted like I was an old friend the moment we met. So it made sense that she didn't mind these people I'd randomly brought home. She trusted me and therefore trusted my judgement when it came to choosing friendships. What an idiot!

"What happened to the party?" Tricia asked, as she served us tea. "It's hardly been an hour and a half, Laurie, but you're already back! With a few friends in tow!"

Richard sighed dramatically. "Pat gave a bunch of random actors - aged about 22 to 30 - strong alcohol. Drunken partying and general stupidity ensued. We were the only sober people left soon enough."

"It looked like the sort of crazy teenager party that doesn't happen in real life," I said, rather thoughtfully. "The sort of thing that's even crazier than all those weird events I got dragged to by various bands in my Sex, Drugs, and Rock n' Roll days."

"Yes, very wild… but also the kind of thing you laugh about years later!" Patricia added.

"You seem to have made friends very quickly," Tricia muttered, not totally approving. Though at least she still seemed to trust me.

I blushed. For some reason Tricia reminded me of my mother. Well, not my _actual_ mother. I suppose she just seems like she's being a mother to me. What an odd way of putting it! The way she'd been 'helping me find friends' reminded me of what someone's mother might do when they'd moved to a new school. It's sort of patronizing of her, though in an accidental way. It's a sensible reaction, I suppose. And she'd also been acting as a mother to young Stella lately. Ever since I began work backstage at the Theatre Downstairs, she's replaced me in many areas of Stella's life. Maybe she'd spent so much time being Stella's mother that she'd decided to become my mother… or so I reasoned at the time.

That's when I began to realize that I probably owed her something for it all. Whatever Marcus was paying her couldn't be enough for what she'd done for us.

"So, what do you do for a living?" Tricia asked

"We're _both_ actors," Pat explained. "I've had bit parts in two Frankie Howerd comedies from this very year. Now, I'm not so fond of him but I will say playing in _Up the Chasity Belt_ was interesting, especially because Don was also in it. Don being my husband Don Hawkins. And I'm getting all _sorts_ of roles on the telly. Not long ago I played a dominatrix on television! She was called 'Yvonne' and is my most _daring_ role of the screen so far."

"You've had a very... _colorful_ career," Tricia commented.

Pat smiled. "Yes! There's also been lots of stage roles, too... but everyone's done stage roles these days. Even Richard."

"I'm an out of work actor at the moment," Richard said, probably in an attempt to shut Patricia up. He wasn't enjoying her rant as

Patricia raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were in that funny religious play now? The Andrew Lloyd Webber one?"

"They _fired_ me," he replied simply. "After my first performance, actually."

"Oh dear," Tricia muttered.

That's when Robby entered the room. "I heard unfamiliar voices and wanted to see-"

"A robot!" Richard said suddenly.

"Indeed," Robby replied.

"I thought aliens and robots and everything were common around here," I said, not understanding his enthusiasm.

"Space men are common in London, even though nobody likes to acknowledges it. But robots… whoa, there aren't many robots around! You look like something out of a science fiction picture. I loved going to the pictures as a kid- back when I could afford it. And my favorites were always the ones with the robots and the spaceships and everything. There's nothing like a science fiction double feature," Richard said, grinning.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up with inspiration. He became to snap his fingers a bit and sing. " _Science fiction- ooh ooh ooh- double feature! See androids fightin' Pat and Laura…"_

Pat and I both began to laugh. Robby, on the other hand, wasn't amused.

"Sir, I prefer the term 'robot' over android and even those of us who don't follow the Three Laws never fight _people_."

"Richard didn't mean anything by that little song, I'm sure," Pat said, smiling at the robot.

"Did you just improvise that?" I asked him.

"Sort of. I've been trying to write a musical, mostly 'cause it gives me something to do. It's not like it's even got much of a story. Right now it's just a few half written songs," Richard explained with a shrug. "That first part was from one of the songs I've begun. The bit about androids I just invented."

"Wow," I muttered.

"Can we here some of the other songs?" Tricia asked. "From your musical?"

"Yes, sing for us! I think they'd like the one about the sword," Pat added. "The Greek-sounding sword bloke."

"You mean the one I call _That Ain't No Crime_?"

"Yes! That one!"

"Well, then...

" _The Sword of Damocles is hanging over my head ! And I've got the feeling someone's going to be cutting the thread… Oh! Woe is me - my life is a misery Oh! Can't you see? That I'm at the start of a dreary old downer…"_

That song reminded me of Janet for some reason. If life were a musical, she'd probably sing that when she'd found out she was pregnant and stopped leaving the bunker. Though I tried to avoid thinking about Janet. Her death had been highly upsetting and all the fuss with the then-newborn twins kept me from properly mourning. So when I thought of her

Richard had a good voice that distracted me from dark memories of Janet Weiss. I realized that it was so very nice as he sang his various songs. Why would anyone fire someone with a voice like that? He didn't deserve to be some sort of 'starving actor' (which is like a starving artist, but in a theatre instead of a cheap apartment).

"You should play a character in that musical," I said. "I really hope you finish it soon, since you're so talented!"

"I'm not that good," he replied nervously.

"You _are_ ," I insisted.

"She's right," Pat insisted, kissing her friend on the forehead.

"Indeed," Tricia agreed.

He laughed at this. "If I had an actual plot to work with I might write something worth performing…"

That's when I decided to help him. I'd give him the craziest plot ever.

"You know," I muttered thoughtfully. "I think I can help you there."

Tricia looked at me in shock. "Laura! Do you really think-"

"That they should know? Yes. It's not like it'll cause any trouble. _He_ won't show up for another two years!"

"What are you talking about?" Pat asked.

"The weirdest eight hours of my life," I told her nervously. "I think they'll make a good plot for a musical- Richard's musical."

"Tell us, then," Richard said.

So, I told them all that happened that night Eddie died. The night Stella was conceived. The night Frank was murdered. The night the servants went to a distant planet. All the terrible things that happened that life-changing night. It was a story that sounded more like the plot of a science fiction picture show than real life. Though they thankfully believed me. Indeed, who could make that much up?

"Is this why you left the United States?" Richard asked, once I'd told the entire tale.

"Yeah…" I replied awkwardly.

And that's when I began to cry. Recounting the whole thing, reliving those memories… not the best idea. Especially since I happened to be rather tired. When I'm tired I'm often more emotional. That's why everything seemed very dramatic in that diary entry I once wrote in the middle of the night.

"Oh, Laurie," Pat muttered, putting her arm around me.

That's when I realized who she reminded me of. Though her hair happened to be a bit lighter and her face slightly different, she resembled Magenta.

"You look… you look like… somebody… I knew," I said, sobbing pathetically.

"Who?" she asked.

"M-m-magenta. The girl I mentioned. _You_ l-l-l-l-look like her."

Pat gave me an odd look. "Who?"

By then I'd managed to get myself under control and stop crying. "My friend Magenta. We _were_ best friends, as Itolf you. Though I suppose 'best friends who screwed each other when we couldn't get anything from one of the guys' is a better way of saying it. The only stable relationship at the castle was between Magenta and her brother, though he didn't seem to mind what she did with anyone as long as there wasn't any actual emotional attachment."

Everyone- even Tricia- stared at me in stunned silence for a moment.

"Wow," Pat muttered, after a moment.

"Oh dear. Are you guys the sort who don't approve of… girl-on-girl?" I asked, cringing at how awkward that sounded.

"This is the 1970s, not the 1870s! We don't care at all," Pat replied cheerfully.

"We really don't," Richard added, though he looked bothered.

"Just don't, er, kiss me or anything. Well, for now…" Pat added, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

I laughed, as did everyone else.

"So, how did you end up at that castle…? If that's not too personal a question," Pat said.

"Well, I ran away from home at about 16. Then, I traveled with various bands for a few years as some sort of groupie. Since I don't weigh much- well, at least, I didn't then- drugs and alcohol went to my head very quickly. That means I don't remember much of what happened for a while. One day Frank picked me up in his pick-up truck and took me to the castle," I explained.

"Why did you run away in the first place?" Richard asked.

I sighed. "My older sister Agnes had a kid before she'd married her boyfriend- when she was 18. Since I didn't really understand how that could happen, a kid at school explained it in much detail. That- combined with my parents' strict rules- kind of freaked me out. I guess that was a pretty severe overreaction… but I was 16."

"Even I didn't know all that," Tricia muttered.

Then, Pat and Richard began to tell Tricia and I all about themselves. I suppose they thought I deserved to hear all sorts of random nonsense about them now that they'd heard about me.

I soon learned that Pat had been born in Belfast (Northern Ireland) and that Richard was originally from Gloucestershire– though moved to Hamilton, New Zealand at the age of nine or so. Apparently his 'real' last name was Smith, but the Actors Guild already had somebody called Richard Smith listed so he changed it to O'Brien.

"Do they really make you change your name like that?" Tricia asked.

He nodded. "Yes, they do."

"How did you guys end up in the business of acting?" I asked.

Pat smiled cheerfully. "When I first came to London, I was 17, I worked in various-"

"You were a Playboy bunny," Richard said, amused.

She glared at him. "Not until later, silly. Anyway I started to perform in plays and such. And, more recently, I've begun auditioning for television. As you know, I've already got a few minor roles here and there. Acting is so much fun, I think."

"What about you?" I asked, glancing at Richard.

"I didn't actually end up in show business until I moved to London at 22. At first I was a stunt actor for movies, but that was miserable. So I've been playing pathetic bit-parts in various musicals since," he explained.

By then, it was getting quite late.

"I don't mean to be rude," Tricia said. "But I think you two should leave now."

And so, they did. I hoped to see them again- and that my 'story' would make a good musical.

* * *

 **Please Review!**


	4. Christmas

**Disclaimer: I don't own _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_**

* * *

The next day - a Saturday - I woke up oddly late. Many people don't even go to work on Saturdays. Alas, people who work backstage at the Royal Court Theatre do. At least my work wasn't as bad as some. Few people got to see all those pretty actors getting dressed. Frank might've liked it.

I'd stayed up far too late talking to Patricia and Richard. They're wonderful people, and ever so much fun to talk to! Though Richard's quietness was sort of troubling.

I had to eat this awful tasting pastry I'd bought from a café near the tube station for breakfast. Thankfully, I finished it by the time I'd gotten to the theatre.

"I'm so sorry I'm late! I slept in," I told Mrs. Josie the moment I saw her.

She sighed. "Well, it is a Saturday. And at least you're better off than the people who went to Elsie's party. All of them got extremely intoxicated quite quickly. Never did approve of drinking myself. Apparently half of them can't remember a thing!"

"That's terrible."

"Yes. And I always thought Elsie wasn't really that sort of girl," Mrs. Josie muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.

I almost felt bad, not telling her what really happened…

But what's the real harm in it?

* * *

After the evening I met Patricia Quinn and Richard Smith/O'Brien, I hadn't really heard from either of them for a while. Months upon months went by. Pure white snow dusted the bustling city, to Stella's delight. Soon enough it was Christmas season. That meant carols being sung on the streets, and stages being flooded with adaptions of _A Christmas Carol_. These Brits got more into the spirit of it all than Americans. I suppose that's because one of their number - meaning the late but great Mr. Charles Dickens - basically invented Christmas as we know it.

I often wished I had an address or something to contact Pat and Richard at, you know. Mostly just to see if Richard made any progress on his little musical. And to invite them to the holiday party Tricia was plotting. Though I had other things to worry about at my job. I'd been promoted to Head of Wardrobe for the theatres both up and downstairs. This didn't really mean anything but making sure people didn't trash their costumes. Each play usually had it's own costume designer, and none of them really like me. Apparently my accent was too annoying. Though I _had_ been trying to loose it - if only to sound more stylish.

I learned that actors came and went with the various productions. A few would come back to be in another unrelated show, but there wasn't much of a 'company' that truly stayed. Pat Quinn had apparently done something there - which explained how she knew Elsie. I'd only been there long enough to see the end of three shows and the beginning of one so I didn't know much. Though I did know that Elsie didnt like me at all after I helped Pat make a mess of the party.

Tricia wanted me to invite a few of the actors to _her_ party. Of course, I didn't really know anybody that well. So I just sort of hung around and did my work as best I could. It was like in High school, when I'd promise my mother I'd befriended 'nice kids' to keep her out of my social life. Except this time there wasn't anyone I knew.

Then, one day, Tim showed up outside the theatre.

It happened to be about six in the evening, on a Wednesday. We never had shows on Wednesdays for some reason. Perhaps people need a day off and weekends are extra busy for our sort. I was only there because I needed to organize a few of the costumes that those stupid actors left of the dressing room floor. It gave me something to do, in the least. Just as I was leaving, I found him standing outside the theatre- absolutely covered in snow. Though he looked hilarious I knew not to laugh. Tim is a very funny person but probably doesn't want to be laughed at for something other than his comedic performances.

"Tim! That is, Mr. Curry. Er, why are you here?" I asked him.

"An old friend - meaning director Jim Sharman - told me about some play he'd be directing here. I was _supposed_ to meet him on the 19th of December to talk about auditions," He explained,

"I'm sorry, Mr. Curry, but it's not the 19th. That was yesterday."

Poor guy seemed a bit upset, going by the look on his memorable face. Though I knew him well enough to know that he often had that expression of disgust upon his face. It probably was just what his face looked like by default. He never truly seemed to act angry...

That's when I remembered something. "My friend Tricia and I are hosting a party together this weekend. She wanted me to invite my coworkers. Of course, most of the people I work with I hardly get to know. Not to mention you're a bit more respectable than some of the real artsy kids."

"Are you inviting me to a party?" he asked, looking somewhat amused. "A Christmas one, presumably?"

I nodded.

"When did you say it was?"

"Saturday the 23rd. Here, I'll write it down."

So, I did. On a scrap of paper I'd found on the ticket desk, which happened to be nearby. After I handed it to him he stared at the terrible handwriting for a moment. He deciphered it quickly than most and didn't say anything - _luckily_. The more I interacted with Mr. Curry the more kind he seemed.

"What's your name again?" he asked.

"Did I not mention it? Sorry, I'm so used to knowing everyone. I'm Laura Trent- er, Scott."

Tim stared at me in confusion. Probably wondering how I forgot my own name.

"My maiden name is 'Trent'. Though, because of my late husband Edward Scott, a lot of legal papers and things call me 'Scott'," I explained.

When I'm just a bit too tired- as I was that evening- I forget who I'm pretending to be. It's especially bad when I write '1978' instead of '1972' on documents.

"I'll _try_ to make it to the party," Tim told me. "But I can't make any promises."

* * *

I didn't have work the day of the party. Everyone at the theatre was off from Saturday to the following Wednesday. Some places do adaptations of _A Christmas Carol_ or something for the holidays, as I previously mentioned. The Royal Court Theatre doesn't because we're all about new, edgy performances. They don't call it an experimental theater for nothin'.

So I spent the entire day helping Tricia prepare for the party. That mostly meant baking sugary desserts, hanging up decorations, and finding Christmas carols in Tricia's impressive record collection.

"I'd better warn you, my husband will be at the party," Tricia told me, as we rolled out cookie dough.

"Is that a problem?" I asked nervously.

She shrugged. "I don't think so. As long as he doesn't do anything too stupid it's okay. Usually he behaves well when I'm watching him. Though this is Invasions Season and he might not even have the time to show up."

"Who else is coming?" I asked, not wanting to think about the last of what Tricia said.

"A few friends from work, neighbors. _M_ _aybe_ my ex-boyfriend Arthur and his girlfriend Fenchurch."

I probably would've asked whom 'a few friends' were if I hadn't been so distracted by the last part. "What sort of name is _Fenchurch_?"

"How should I know? Ask her when she gets here."

Then we went back to cooking. By 4 o'clock in the afternoon- an hour before the party officially began- we'd baked every sort of holiday cookie imaginable. The robot and Stella (mostly the former) had finished decorating the living room at that point. It was all very pretty. On the telly a re-run of _Doctor Who_ was playing with the volume turned down very low. It was a second-doctor episode.

I was tired, after a day of work, and my clothes had somehow been covered in various cookie ingredients. Mostly flour and powered sugar. If only Tricia hadn't forced me to help cook! Even she seemed to wish so. As I've said too often - I'm a dreadful cook!

"Hopefully nobody gets here early," I muttered… _just_ as somebody knocked on the door.

Tricia sighed dramatically. "I'll answer the door, you get dressed! Hurry!"

Now slightly panicked, I rushed upstairs. I'd planned on actually wearing the outfit I wore at that point to the party. That meant I didn't have anything else picked out.

After a while I found a rather plain dress in dark blue. It wasn't too nice, though it would do. Since it happened to be a bit too loose, I wore a terrifyingly glittery silver belt. I put on the first pair of stockings I found (which happened to be very dark purple), but didn't bother with shoes.

Then I made the mistake of trying to redo my makeup. That took ages. Technically, a 'natural' makeup look was stylish. But I'd always like glittery, obvious makeup. That's not very practical, since it's very easy to mess up. And then you have to redo it…

 _Finally_ , I ran downstairs again.

There, to my delight, stood the most unlikely of people. People I thought wouldn't show up. Pat, Richard, Tim, and Tricia were all cheerfully conversing. From what little I knew I'd previously believed that Tim and Richard hated each other! Apparently they didn't.

Soon enough other guests began to arrive.

* * *

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